


Potion

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 03:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: Geralt is unused to being unable to identify a potion. Iorveth refuses to enlighten him.





	Potion

**Author's Note:**

> Er, so this whole thing just spawned from of snippets of dialogue I was writing for Geralt and Iorveth...  
> Warning - contains explicit sex between two males. Don't read if it ain't your thing.

“What _is_ that stuff? It smells like swamp water. And durian.”

Iorveth freezes for a second. He still isn’t used to Geralt being able to catch him unawares. He is as silent as an Aen Seidhe when he wants to be.

“None of your business, _Gwynbleidd.”_ He replies, recorking the small vial.

He swallows against the absolute bitterness and scrubs at his face to stop his eye from tearing up.

Geralt was watching him.

“I’m not aware of that potion.” He comments.

“Nor should you be.” Iorveth chokes out, before stalking off to care for the horses.

 

***

 

“Is it an illness?”

“What? No!” Iorveth croaks, his throat burning at the acrid taste.

“Is it an addiction?” Geralt pesters.

Iorveth shoots him a filthy look. “I’ve no time for narcotics and their damage.”

“I can smell sewant mushroom.”

“It’s _not_ a narcotic.” Iorveth pointedly slips the vial into his jacket, intending to keep it out of the reach of overly-curious Witchers.

 

***

 

“So you aren’t dying or looking for a fix. Does it offer any health benefits?” Geralt thinks for a moment. “It doesn’t seem enjoyable.”

 Iorveth glares at him. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

“Why all the secrecy?” Geralt counters. “It’s not like you’re holding the answer to Elvish immortality!”

“You just want to appease your curiosity! You.Don’t.Need.To.Know.” He snarls.

 

***

 

Iorveth is pleased when the next few weeks pass without comment.

(Only because he has taken to sneaking drams at odd times of the day and night – far away from prying golden eyes).

 

***

 

As the potion roils around in his gut, Iorveth wonders why he is so _annoyed._ Why should it feel any different? It is a _good_ thing the _vatt’ghern_ is away on a Contract, for it means he isn’t around to pry into his personal affairs!

 

***

 

Iorveth is practically shaking as he rummages through his pack for the vial. Too long. He’d spent too long chasing up false leads in that dh’oine-infested place. And _of course_ it had been a trap. The city had gone into lockdown scant hours after his arrival. He’d spent days avoiding patrols and finally managed to slip out via the canals.

He feels lightheaded, scattered and feverish. He’d practically shouted his arrival down to the sentries, and hurtled through the treetops to his hideaway – a small cave not far from the camp. There were standing orders in place – no one would disturb him there.

There’s every chance the potion won’t work this time – but he will try regardless. At least he’d escaped the city. Iorveth’s backup plan had been to hole up in the sewers and pray not to be found by monsters or scavengers until it was over. The idea of being vulnerable in such a place –

Shaking, he finally retrieves the vial and stands, intending to toss it back. But his grace has temporarily departed him and the glass container slips from his fingers.

No.

He snatches for it but he is too late.

It’s caught by a pale hand. Iorveth straightens slowly, eyes moving from the bottle to the Man’s face. Curse _Gwynbleidd_! Of all the people he did _not_ want to see right now…he shivers slightly at the intensity in those cat-like eyes.

“Give me the vial. And get out.” He demands as coldly as he can. Internally, a battle is being fought. It’s all he can do not to move closer to the larger male. He has the sudden urge to trace the scar running down the _vatt’ghern’s_ face.

“Tell me what it is, and it’s yours.”

A sound of distress escapes him and he digs his nails viciously into a palm.

“This is _not_ a game.” He hisses at the Man.

Geralt scents of silver and blade oil. Of thunderstorms and the herbs he carries. Iorveth tries not to breathe too deeply, but the scent fixes itself in his mind.

“Please, Geralt.” he hates the pleading note in his voice.

“ _Feainnewedd’haela_.”

Iorveth stares at him as Geralt correctly names the potion.

“Evailin told you.”

“Your little healer did not breathe a word. I did my own research. But I’m right, aren’t I? This is _Feainnewedd’haela_.” Geralt’s low rumble is both soothing and provoking by turns.

“Geralt – “

“It did not occur to me to look in that direction for an answer. There are no references of Aen Seidhe _males_ going into heat.”

“I strive for originality.” Iorveth’s laugh was brittle. “Please give me the vial… _an_ _va vort a me,_ _Gwynbleidd.” Leave me._ He is struggling to remember the words in Common, now.

He is shaking and feverish and cannot _think_ with this male around.

Slowly, Geralt extends the vial to him and Iorveth accepts it. He frowns at the bottle. What had he meant to do again?

“Iorveth?”

The Elf blinks, and turns his head towards the sound of his name.

“Don’t drink it.”

The _vatt’ghern_ steps in close and Iorveth senses are flooded by him. The sound of shattering glass registers as the Elf buries his nose into the swordsman’s neck and inhales deeply. Barely contained arousal finally crashes through him, and he is snatching at Geralt’s clothes ineffectually. He can _feel_ the heat radiating from the other and he wants it on his skin. He growls in frustration.

Geralt corrals him with and arm and runs his other hand under his shirt, over his stomach and chest. The callouses on the Man’s fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake and he hisses.

The _vatt’ghern_ sets to distracting him with his mouth, kissing him, leaving a trail down the column of his neck. Geralt switches to an ear, which sets him moaning and pressing into the taller male’s body, looking for more contact. He is damp with need and he can smell it in the air now.

Geralt catches his scent too and hums into a pointed ear.

“Apparently your pheromones work on Witchers too. You smell amazing.” Geralt licks a strip along the shell of his ear and he jolts at the sensation.

Iorveth finally coordinates himself enough to yank Geralt’s shirt up. The Man obligingly removes his arms and the Elf crowds him, licking at the scars and unblemished skin on his chest. His fingers began to pull at the laces on Geralt’s pants, but he’s distracted and fuzzy. He snarls at Geralt in warning.

Geralt efficiently removes both their clothing in response, batting Iorveth’s hands away occasionally as they tangle unhelpfully in the fabric. At first he resists Geralt as the swordsman pushes at him – thinking the Man seeks to fend him off. And then he retreats with haste as he realizes Geralt is herding him towards the blankets.

He sighs as Geralt’s weight settles on him and he urges one of the _vatt’ghern’s_ hands down to his cock, arching up when the Man grips him firmly. He is already hard and leaking and a few calloused strokes is all it takes to set him off. He shouts as his comes blindingly hard into Geralt’s hand, vision going blank for a moment.

Geralt continues to stroke him through it and Iorveth squirms underneath him, unsure if he wants the feeling to stop or continue. More stroking and he starts to fill again in response. He widens his legs in invitation to the other male. The touching is not enough.

The _vatt’ghern_ explores with his other hand, grunting in surprise when he finds little resistance, and a slight wetness inside. Iorveth is wholly taken with the feeling of fingers in him and shifts erratically to encourage them deeper. He cries out as they hit a nerve and he’s pulling Geralt down, closer, wanting his full weight to pin him to the bedding.

His pleading is wordless, for his brain cannot remember how to form speech. All there is is the heat coursing through him, and the scent and feel of the male above him. He _wants_ with every fibre of his being.

Geralt must understand his distress because the fingers retreat and he is manoeuvred until he is displayed before the Man. His protests at the withdrawal are cut off as they are replaced by Geralt himself. Iorveth feels more than hears the Man groan as he slides into him. It does not take much effort before he is completely hilted and Iorveth moans brokenly in response.

Then Geralt begins to move and Iorveth is drowning in the sensation. His movements are instinctual and rhythmic, his body effortlessly in synch with the _vatt’ghern’s._ The frustration is gone, a distant memory as his heat is finally allowed to run its course.

All sense of shame, pride and restraint are gone as he ruts with Geralt in the blankets. The _vatt’ghern_ spills in him and it sets off another wave of lust and need. His awareness dims and there is only sensation…

 

***

 

Some time later he registers that he has shifted to Geralt’s lap and is rocking lazily against him, his arms about Geralt’s neck and the Man’s arms around his back.

“Alright?” The _vatt’ghern_ must sense a change in him.

“Ná.” He agrees, then yawns. He stills his hips with conscious effort and disentangles himself from the _vatt’ghern_. Then he simply lays down in the damp blankets, pulling Geralt down with him.  Something tickles his face and he pulls Geralt’s shirt out from under his head. He’d obviously used it to clean them both up a bit. Iorveth flings it aside and curls up.

“No sudden urge to take a bath, _Aen Seidhe_?” Geralt quips, amused.

Iorveth snorts. “Ordinarily, I’d consider it. But right now the stream is too far away.”

The Elf deliberates for a moment or two. He has his back wedged against Geralt’s chest and decides to press on, while his cannot see the Man’s reactions. He is too raw, too fragile right now.

“The scent is calming.”

Geralt combs his hair back with his fingers. His scalp tingles pleasantly. When it’s clear the _vatt’ghern_ isn’t going to comment, he tries again.

“Geralt, even if you wash with spirits instead of water –“

“I know.”

“ _Do_ you though?” he prickles.

“I did some research. And when I still couldn’t place the potion, I decided to visit a friend.”

“Do I know this friend?” Iorveth’s question holds a warning.

“Toruviel Aep Shihiel.”

“Yaevinn’s lieutenant.”

“The same. I met her some time ago. At first she viewed me as an enemy, and then later a friend. We fought together.”

“ _Only_ a friend?” Iorveth grates out before he can stop himself.

He feels Geralt smile.

“Toruviel likes to torment the males around her. But no, her interest is wholly in she-elves.”

 “Ah.”

“I described the potion. After she stopped laughing herself sick, she told me _Feainnewedd’haela_ was a suppressant to stop she-elves going into season. I did not correct her. We had an – enlightening conversation about mating and heat, and a person’s scent.”

Iorveth hums.

“I wondered why you did not simply invite one of your Socia’tael males to share your bed. I’ve been around elves enough to know you enjoy sex as much as any other race. _Despite_ what humans think.” He pauses. “And so I decided I needed to know what it meant. When I got back, you’d already left for Novigrad.”

“And what conclusion have you drawn, _vatt’ghern_?” Iorveth tries for flippant, and fails.

“That this was never _just_ going to be about sex, with you.”

Geralt wrestles with the Elf for a moment, trying to get Iorveth to look him in the eye. Iorveth steels himself. Geralt is not _Aen Seidhe_ and nothing holds him here, he can choose to ignore their newly mingled scent in a way Iorveth cannot –

“You are going to have to show me how to braid hair, so I can present you with one of those tokens. What do you call them? _Findelë-anna?”_

Iorveth stares at him dumbly for a moment.

“You can keep it under your bandanna if you are worried the silver will make you look old.” Geralt adds, looking slightly…disappointed?

Then Iorveth laughs, a true laugh.

“It’s _findelë- **anwa** _ for a braid given to a male, _Gwynbleidd_.”

The swordsman just huffs at him as he folds a blanket over them.

“In what realm was I supposed to know that? Stop chuckling and go to sleep. I’m bloody exhausted.”

“Your fault.” Iorveth murmurs. “You’re the one who pursued an Elf in heat…”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed. Not beta-ed so please let me know if you spot any mistakes.  
> These two just point blank refuse to do casual sex, I swear.
> 
> As usual a mix of Witcher and Tolkien elvish to fill in the blanks. I may have butchered some of the Tolkien elvish for my own ends. Sorrynotsorry.
> 
> Aen Seidhe - elf  
> Gwynbleidd - White Wolf (aka Geralt)  
> vatt’ghern - Witcher  
> Feainnewedd - A flower which grows only in places marked by Elder Blood.  
> haela - medicine, drug (So Feainnewedd'haela is a potion name that I made up).  
> an va vort a me - and get away from me (aka leave me)  
> Ná - yes. Tolkien elvish, butchered. (There's no direct word for yes).  
> Findelë - tress, lock of hair. Tolkien elvish.  
> anna - gift. Tolkien elvish. Not a feminine version as I've indicated above.  
> anwa - gift. Tolkien elvish. Not a masculine version as I've indicated above.  
> Findelë-anna/anwa. A word I made up to represent a braid of hair given to a lover as a token and promise of fidelity.


End file.
